Distractions
by vault of glass
Summary: Charon has always been a source of comfort for her. Now she's looking for comfort of a different kind. Smutty one-shot for the kinkmeme. Charon/FLW. Mild D/s, tiny bit of breathplay.


There's no better feeling than seeing Megaton finally come into view after a long journey home. The wasteland is intoxicating. The stretching freedom of the endless horizon. The warm, crackling winds. The grit of earth and bite of sun. But the constant alertness, and recovery when alertness fails, is exhausting. Every distant shift and sound must be analyzed, every soul encountered must be considered a threat. There is only as much water as she can carry, her Vault-grown skin sunburns at every opportunity, and the nights . . . god, the nights spent out in the wastes are enough to give her nightmares even when she's safe.

The gates of Megaton jerk into motion with a deafening squeal. Boots crunch to a stop beside her, and she squints up at her companion. Part of her wonders how she even made it long enough on her own to find Charon. How she'd even had the confidence to walk into Underworld, stroll into the Ninth Circle and demand to purchase a six-foot-five death machine. But that's pretty much been her life in the wasteland. Every moment of terror or panic, she has to make a decision. Sometimes that decision is bluffing. Sometimes that decision is blowing a few brains out. It hasn't led her wrong yet.

At least now she has some back-up.

Stockholm waves down to her as she enters the city, and even from this far below him she can see the way his face hardens at the sight of Charon. If the ghoul notices it, he doesn't say anything. Not that that's uncommon. Getting conversation out of him is like pulling teeth sometimes, but he's a damn good shot, so she can't complain. She didn't "hire" him as a conversationalist anyways.

As soon as she gets to the house, she drops her bag unceremoniously and heads up the stairs with her bed on her mind. She briefly considers filling the old tub in the spare room with some irradiated water she has saved up, but the thought of stewing in her own cold filth sounds so unappetizing.

Downstairs Charon takes a seat at the chipped dining table and begins pulling out his weapons for maintenance. She wonders not for the first time whether he's happy with her, or if he just follows along out of some guilty need to keep the person who freed him alive. That thought bothers her, but she doesn't know what she'd do without the company, so she doesn't push the issue.

The comfort and safety of Megaton are like stepping into a warm embrace, but beneath that surface relief lurk the night terrors she knows are waiting for her. The fear lashes at her as she slips beneath the tattered covers, like chattering teeth in the back of her mind. She can feel her hands shake as she lies in the dark room and closes her eyes. The silence quickly becomes stifling, and her mind races as she tries to distract herself.

It's better now that she has Charon. But the enveloping emptiness still ambushes her at night, the fear and the stress and the horror that she pushes out when she's in the wasteland, fighting to survive. When she returned to Tenpenny Tower to find out the ghouls she'd helped slaughtered everyone inside. When she burned down all of Grayditch to save Bryan Wilks. When she left behind her dying father to save his project. At least with Charon downstairs, she has _someone_. It's enough comfort to coax herself into sleep.

But the night terrors don't take long to interrupt what fitful rest she manages to get. She shoots out of bed with a cry, her clothes sticking to her skin with perspiration and her heart hammering in her chest. There's a rasp in her throat, and she has the sinking suspicion she was screaming in her sleep. Poor Charon. But he's never said a thing, so she has to assume he doesn't mind or doesn't care.

The episode has only exhausted her further. Sleeps feels inevitable, but lingers just out of her reach. She imagines Charon downstairs like a talisman, scaring off the demons that haunt her. Strong, unshakable Charon. The thought of him standing protectively over her momentarily soothes the panic, and she falls gratefully into unconsciousness, able only to hope that it lasts until morning.

* * *

The next morning finds our heroine slumped against the counter of Gob's bar, nursing cool water and trying to drown out the din of voices all around her.

"Here you go, kid. You look like skin and bones." The ghoul slides a plate across the dingy counter toward her. She wants to protest, but the grilled brahmin in front of her is too appealing and she digs in ravenously. Gob looks pleased that he can help in some small way. Nova has joked in the past that the ghoul has a bit of a crush on her, and the thought makes her cheeks burn. Gob's the nicest guy she's met, both in the Vault and the wasteland, and she doesn't care that he's a ghoul, there's just something weird about thinking about him romantically. Like kissing a brother.

Charon methodically eats beside her. The steady, precise movement of his hands draws her attention back to her companion, and she eyes him out of her peripheral. She wonders how ghouls' digestive systems work. Does he get hungry? Can he taste anything still? Does he miss pre-war food? Imagining Charon's past has gotten her through many a long, boring trek. The object of her fascination catches her staring and scowls.

She sighs and props her chin up on her hand, pushing the remains of her food fitfully around her plate.

The song that's playing on the radio fades to an end, and Three Dog's raucous howl fills the bar. " _Hello, boys and girls! Got some newwwws for you, from Paradise Falls! The Lone Messiah has_ -"

Charon quickly reaches across the bar and switches the radio off. Mild protests ripple up from patrons, and a Megaton resident looks up from the table where he's sitting. "I was listening to that!" he announces with an irritated edge.

Charon spears him with a venomous glare, and the settler quickly folds back into his seat.

She feels a swell of affection for the big lump, who continues eating, probably uncomfortably aware of her gaze. She vaguely remembers telling him once how much she hates hearing Three Dog brag about her on the radio. It's just a daily reminder of how much is riding on her success, how much of a symbol of hope she's become for the people of the wasteland, and the potentially catastrophic consequences of her failure.

Charon does so much for her already. Aside from keeping her alive on a regular basis, his presence wards the worst of the night terrors away. Such a tiny gesture, done so casually - she's filled with this strange, warm sensation. Like he's just told her some kind of secret about himself - though his actual secrets would probably terrify her. So bizarre to think that someone who looks so menacing, who she had feared so intensely upon their first meeting, has become such a source of comfort for her. Nothing is conventional about the wasteland. It's only fitting her travelling companion wouldn't be either.

She pushes her plate forward towards Gob and gets to her feet, stretching her arms up over her head. "You ready to go?"

When her eyes slide over to meet his, she catches him staring, for a fleeting moment, at the curve of her neck. Wordlessly, Charon gets up, towering over her, and she waves cheerily at Gob as they leave. He trails after her, as he always does, footsteps masterfully quiet despite his stature. She can't help sneaking glances back at him, and she can tell it's making him uncomfortable, but it's driving her crazy wondering what he's thinking about when he gets silent like this. Talking has been a defense mechanism throughout her life, and it's gotten her out of many sticky situations. Charon seems like he could go a century without a word.

An idea has begun to wiggle around in her brain, formed in the wake of a few sleepless nights and a bottle of whiskey, nurtured, solidified over days. It's haunted her day and night. An elixir, a cure for her terror, a momentary lapse of control to put the world back into place. And just the thought of it makes her stomach do flips. She walks into the house and starts pacing, teeth worrying her thumbnail anxiously.

Charon has been with her long enough to know something is on her mind, and there's not exactly anywhere else to go or anything else to do, so he waits patiently at the dining room table. His weapons are laid out across it, clean and loaded. It's one of the things she loves about him, his thoroughness.

"I have something to ask you," she starts out, trying so hard not to meet his gaze. She can feel sweat begin to collect at the back of her neck, and she can only imagine how flushed and red her face must look. "It's gonna sound weird, because it is weird. But it's something I've been thinking about, and I need to say it."

She finally musters up the courage to make eye contact with him, and his face is impassive as he waits for her to spit it out. She takes in a deep breath, and then the words come out in a rush. "I'm stressed out. I'm tired. I've been shot, and burned, and stunned. I watched my dad die to save Project fucking Purity, and now it's up to me to make sure every asshole in the wasteland gets fresh water to ensure human survival. It's all I can ever think about all the time. For just a little bit - just a teeny, tiny bit - I don't want to be in charge. I don't want to be the hero. I don't want to call the shots."

His brow creases, and she can tell he doesn't follow.

She swallows hard. "I just want to be a woman. And I want to be with a man. And I want him to be in charge so the world can make sense again for a little bit."

He blinks once, slowly, and she almost can't breathe from the anxiety clenching her stomach in knots as realization crosses his face. Her heart feels like it's going to beat out of her ribcage. Charon continues to stare at her motionlessly, but something changes in his eyes. They rake up her body in a way she's never seen him look at her before, like he's tasting her with his gaze. His hands curl into fists before he crosses his arms abruptly over his chest.

He clears his throat then, and the sound almost startles her. "Have you . . . before, I mean?"

Her cheeks burn hot. Worried her voice will tremble, she simply nods. Sure, the last guy may have been some tough-kid greaser in a Vault, but she's a grown-ass woman and every second she stands in front of Charon the more certainly she knows that she wants him, needs him, and desperately.

He seems to consider her reply, leaning back in the seat with a long exhale. His eyes study her as if analyzing for weakness. "I don't think you know what you're asking for."

Her face twists into a glare and she sucks in a breath to temper herself. "I know I'm stressed out, and I need some help. And I want it from you."

A deep, husky laugh that scratches some itch she's never realized she has. "Funny kind of help. Can't say any employers have ever purchased my contract for that before."

"Well, you're nobody's property now, and you're free to say no if you want," she snaps maybe a little testily, but she's dangling on a thin string and, just like always, can't piece together what he's thinking from that stoic expression.

"Let me think about it," he says finally, his voice solemn, and there are no cracks in that mask for her to analyze one way or the other. She nods quietly, trying to fight back an unexpected rush that feels an awful lot like rejection. She mumbles something about needing to see Moira and stumbles hurriedly out of the house into the warm wasteland air.

The afternoon heat is a great excuse for the flush in her cheeks as she crosses the catwalks hoping Moira can provide enough mindless babble to distract her.

* * *

She sinks into the warm water, the dull bitterness of a Rad-X in the back of her throat. It took some time to boil the water, and longer still for Wadsworth and her to carry it in buckets up to the tub, but the feeling of the heat on her aching skin is heavenly.

It's been a few days since she's seen Charon. His absence has made the nights unbearable. After having him as her crutch for so long, going without him is terrifying. Who knows where he even went in this tiny town? She needs her talisman back, before she goes insane. One glance in the mirror this morning at the dark bags under her eyes was confirmation enough of what she already knows, and feels like an ache deep in her bones: She hasn't slept in days.

But the bath is relaxing at least. She can feel the stress ease out of her back, and scrubbing the dirt from her suntanned skin is therapeutic. She takes her time lathering up her hair and soaking the blood and dirt from the strands until they're a recognizable amber again.

By the time she's finished, the sun has set and a chill settles in the air. She wanders downstairs to start making dinner. The pilot light on the stove starts with a few weak clicks and she starts boiling some water. She can hear Wadsworth whirring around upstairs, tidying up her messes. At least she has him for company if she needs it.

The front door slams behind her and she turns to see Charon fill the doorway. He seems gargantuan in the tiny house, and the hungry look in his eyes makes a tremor run down her spine.

He crosses the space between them in a few long strides and yanks her into his arms. Her gasp is stifled by his rough kiss, a kiss heady with repressed passion. She stumbles backwards, knocking boxes and cans from the shelves. His lips move against hers in earnest, and she's kissing him back before she can realize it, her hands grasping tight at his armor.

When she falls short of breath, he trails his mouth down her jawline to her neck and bites at the skin of her shoulder. "Turn the stove off," he growls against her collarbone.

She snakes a hand behind her at once and twists the knob until the flames die. His big hands are everywhere, feeling out her hips and her sides and the backs of her shoulders. "Take off my armor."

Intoxicated off of his attention, she starts pulling at the leather straps. It doesn't help her trembling hands that he's sucking bruises into her neck, and those long, rough fingers have her hips in an iron hold. Finally the buckles are loose and the heavy plates drop with a clang to the floor. He frees her long enough to allow her to shove the leather from his shoulders, and then his hands are on her again, pulling at the buttons of her shirt.

She takes in the sight of his bare chest for the first time, and the chiseled topography of his torso is almost too delicious to bear. She groans and draws her fingers down over his abdomen, the rough texture promising for later ventures.

He catches her exploring hand and brings it to his lips for a brief kiss. Then he straightens up and away from her. "Turn around," he demands and hunger has touched the deep rumble of his voice. With shallow breaths, she obeys. His hands catch her waist and guide her back against his chest. She lets out a soft gasp at the feel of him, hard and aching at her back. He threads his way past the rest of the buttons on her shirt and tugs it down her arms, thoughtlessly tossing it aside to work on her shorts. Meanwhile, he nibbles the shell of her ear. The rough skin of his hands leave her skin scorching in their wake as he trails his way down her stomach. Her legs threaten to go out, so she braces herself with white knuckles against the metal shelves in front of her.

"These walls are thin," he breathes into her skin. "You must be quiet."

One of his hands finds the curve of a breast and teases at moving upward. A shaking sigh escapes through the teeth biting down on her bottom lip.

"Not a sound," he threatens with a chill cooling the burn in his voice. "Do you understand?"

She nods anxiously, head flopping back against his shoulder.

"Good," he rumbles, and coarse fingertips run up over one of her nipples. It's a struggle to refrain from crying out. He slips beneath the material of her shorts and finds the heated want between her thighs. Rough fingers slip between the sensitive folds there and her eyes roll back.

He lets out a pained sound when he feels the slick evidence of her arousal. His touch becomes possessive, one arm holding her back tight against his body while his other hand begins to move in a sharp rhythm. His fingers are deft, the coarse pads something heavenly as he makes circles around the little bundle of nerves throbbing for attention. The sensation is like waves in a storm, lapping wildly against the shore, eroding at her stress, her anxiety, her self-control.

He growls in satisfaction when her legs begin to shake. One hand rolls a sensitive nipple between his fingers, a duller, secondary pleasure to the magic he is working with his other hand. The weight of his hard, tense body behind her, and the excitement of such sudden passion, and the delightful helplessness of a submissive role are like sparks of fire, burning her up from within. Urged on by the rocking of her body, he strokes faster.

Charon breathes her name and it sounds like a prayer. She's teetering on the edge of a precipice, fingers numb from clenching so hard onto the metal shelf.

"That's it," he rumbles in her ear. "Come for me."

 _Oh,_ _ **shit**_ _, why is that so hot_? She bites down hard on her lip to silence herself as the orgasm seizes her body, consuming her from the inside out in waves of pleasure. Her legs spasm and kick, nearly giving out if not for Charon's free arm supporting her. When the little aftershocks have finally stopped pulsing through her, she falls back against him, limp.

He lets out a low chuckle. "Good girl." His hands turn her around again, and he takes in her face as she tries to catch her breath. Something like satisfaction crosses his expression before it becomes stern again. The muscles of his shoulders are hard beneath her hands as he tries to hold himself back, and the strain of his self-control is thrilling.

Charon ducks his head against her shoulder and the heavy smell of leather and arousal makes her head swim. His hand closes around hers and brings it back to the planes of his chest. "Touch me," he commands her breathlessly.

Greedily she begins to study every inch of him with her hands. Every dip of exposed muscle, each scar and old bullet wound. The sensation of his skin against hers is a delicious little sin on its own, and she wonders briefly how hard it's going to be after today not to rub her naked body against him constantly.

His head dips low to kiss her again. His teeth catch her bottom lip, holding her there for a moment before releasing her. A throaty groan is wrenched out of him as her hand cradles the throbbing head of his cock, straining beneath the thick leather of his pants. She quickly undoes the zipper and pulls aside the metal plating to free his arousal. The heavy weight of it fills her hands and she closes her eyes, momentarily light-headed. _Oh, boy_.

Her fingers close around his thick length and she gives an experimental stroke. He lets out a hiss against her skin. Encouraged by the rapt tension of his body, she grasps him tighter. His hips thrust into her hold, seemingly of their own accord. He tilts his forehead down against hers and steels himself with a deep breath.

"You feel amazing," Charon groans as if in disbelief. He steadies her hips with one hand and the other finds the hot slickness of her core again. The brush of his knuckles over her sensitive skin is almost too much to bear and she shudders in response. Then one thick finger pushes into her, followed quickly by another. The sensation is tantalizing as he begins to slowly fuck her with his fingers.

"God, you're tight." He pulls his hand free, leaving her achingly empty for a moment. He pauses to suck the taste of her from his fingers, exhaling hard through his nose in approval. "Come." He pulls her down so that she's straddling his waist on the floor. His arousal is hot and aching against her stomach. She cups the head of him in her hands and a sigh catches in her throat when his teeth clench with pleasure. He grabs hold of her hips once more to help lift her up.

"Slow," he cautions her as she guides him into place until she can feel him pushing against her. Biting down on her lip, she slowly lets her weight drop down. The head of his cock slips in and she gapes as her body stretches to accommodate him. Her hand splays out against his chest for support and she gains a few more inches. He watches her face intently as he enters her.

'Oh,' she mouths with rounded eyes, struggling to remain silent.

Charon looks pained as he slowly fills her up, his hands digging in to her hips hard enough to bruise. When she reaches her limit, she drags herself back up, and he groans as her core clenches him tightly. Steeling herself, she pushes back down, taking more of him. She can feel herself clench at his rough skin, a delicious sting as she falls into a rhythm.

His eyes never leave hers, even when she plants her hands on the hard muscle of his abdomen for leverage. The muscles beneath her palms are rigid with tension. Her blood is rushing in her ears, and she hears a high keening sound before she realizes it's coming from her.

"Please," she begs in a high gasp each time he fills her, over and over. "Please. Please."

Charon bites out a breathless laugh. "Go ahead, smoothskin. Scream for me."

When she next drops down, her hips slap against his and she's taking all of him. A wail is torn out of her throat at the deliciously full sensation. Her fingernails scrape against his skin. She might've drawn blood, but his low, rumbled groan seems to indicate he doesn't mind. His hips pump up to meet hers as she bottoms out each time, until he can't take it anymore and he abruptly rolls them over.

Charon's teeth find her neck once more as he thrusts into her. Each roll of his hips is savage and demanding, a harsh, repeating rhythm that feels so _fucking_ good it aches. She mewls and writhes on the cold floor, the sting of his bite and the ecstasy of his length inside of her like a powerful force, a thunderstorm, a world-shattering earthquake that wreaks havoc on her raw nerves.

Dark red hair fills his fists and he angles her head upward so that he can drink in her frenzied gaze. His name falls from her lips over, and over, and over, and it's like nothing he's ever experienced before. She hooks her legs around his waist, savoring each brutal thrust, each stinging tug at her hair, each hungry, wanting bite. His teeth have probably marked every available inch of her skin and she just can't find it in herself to care.

Charon's big hand cradles the side of her face, for a moment almost lovingly, and it's a brief, lucid affection amidst the haze of ecstasy. And then his thumb shifts over the long, lovely bridge of her neck, framing below her jawline with a perfect, delicious pressure. Her eyes widen in excitement, wet with delirious tears. With the leverage of his hold on her throat, his hips drive into her at just the right angle, and the slow burn for oxygen mixed with the sweet, pulsating fullness push her over the edge.

"Yes," she breathes through swollen lips when the rolling pressure builds to a climax, her voice faltering beneath the pressure of his grasp. Her eyes are shut so tight that white spots are blinding behind her eyelids as she shatters against the force of her orgasm. "Yes, oh, god, yes."

He strangles out a throaty groan before her unrestrained squeals and the vice-like clenching of her core are too much. With erratic, jagged thrusts he unwinds within her, releasing her throat to brace himself with both hands spread out against the floor. His shoulders tremble beneath her hands and he's panting into the crook of her neck.

She's equally winded, a quivering arm thrown over her eyes. For a moment, there is nothing but the sound of them catching their breath. The house suddenly seems too large, too empty, too quiet. The lone wanderer feels sore and exhausted and thoroughly fucked. Eventually Charon stirs again and climbs carefully off of her, a hand pressed to the side of his head as if to stop it spinning. Now that the waves of orgasmic bliss have faded, she can feel the fresh bruises at her hips and neck, her kneecaps raw and stinging, sex still pulsing with tiny echoes of pleasure. Charon helps her to her feet, looking not a little bit smug.

With an arm steadying her around the waist, he supports her up the stairs. Her stomach rumbles in a last-ditch effort to coerce her into eating before she falls asleep, but her tired limbs barely have the energy to get her to her bed. Charon drops her slowly onto the mattress and rumbles a laugh at the smooth, relaxed planes of her face. Her hand reaches out to grab his, tugging him feebly down beside her.

"You sleep here now," she mumbles into the scorching skin of his shoulder as she huddles up beside him.

"Guess you were right, smoothskin," he observes quietly as her breathing slows and she nears unconsciousness. "That was exactly what you needed."

And she sleeps like a baby the whole night.

* * *

"These fucking kids are driving me insane. Have I mentioned I hate kids? Because I really fucking hate kids."

Peals of childish laughter echo after them as they march deeper into the caves of Little Lamplight. Because she had saved a few of the brats from slavers when they cleared out Paradise Falls, the Little Lamplighters grudgingly agreed to let her enter Vault 87 through their home. Charon watches her as she stomps through the dank caverns, each step angry and hard. She can feel his eyes on her back, and it's pissing her off.

They find the cabin where the children said they could rest in a small chamber. The lone wanderer steps into the dusty little building and immediately drops all of her belongings, as she always does, as if the thought of carrying them a second longer is overwhelming on its own.

"Let's just get some sleep before we have to fight out way through another creepy, irradiated vault tomorrow."

When he doesn't respond, she turns to see him moving closer to her, a very determined look in his eyes. He crowds her back into a corner of the room, blocking her in with a long arm planted beside her. "Let down your hair," he growls, and the change in atmosphere is almost palpable.

The stress is smoothed from her expression, quickly followed by confusion. "Here? Really?"

A deadly sounding snarl cuts her off and he lowers his head so that his breath is fanning out hot against her throat. "Let. Down. Your. Hair."

Unable to hold back a smile, the lone wanderer reaches up and frees her amber waves from its restricting ponytail, so the strands bounce down around her shoulders. He hums in satisfaction at her obedience as his hands claim her hips.

"Now get undressed, slowly. I want to see all of you."

When her clothes are in a puddle around her, he drinks in the sight of her body with possessive eyes. If the hunger etched in the lines of his face and the bulge straining in his pants are any indication, he likes what he sees. A chill something like fright dances down her spine, because he looks as if he is going to devour her alive. One rough, big hand claims a fistful of her hair, and she relaxes into his hold.

"Tell me who you belong to, smoothskin."

The answer is easy, and in her heart, she feels it to be true. "You, Charon."

"And what are we doing tonight?"

She replies with a smile that looks almost relieved. "Whatever you want."

He lets out a low, raspy laugh then and gifts her the delicious burn of his touch. "You're damn right."


End file.
